


Tales of Ba Sing State

by WillowsAndWastelands



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Sports, American Football, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Gay Panic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rival Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:21:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowsAndWastelands/pseuds/WillowsAndWastelands
Summary: Sokka isn't going to go to college, and he is fine with that. A simple life is a noble life, after all. However, when he's offered a full-ride athletic scholarship to the notoriously prestigious Ba Sing State University, he's more than open to a change of plans.Regardless, money quickly becomes the least of his worries when a golden-eyed fellow freshman sets foot on the field; determined to best him at his own game. And sure, Zuko is a stupid, obsessive, pale, beautiful, angry asshole, but he's also just might be the best half-blind football player the world's ever seen.With honor, guilt, success, and scholarships riding on the line of victory, Sokka and Zuko must learn to overcome their differences to work together to win.(And maybe, just as inevitably, fall in love along the way.)
Relationships: Aang & Katara & Sokka & Zuko, Aang & Sokka (Avatar), Aang/Katara (Avatar), Mai/Suki (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	Tales of Ba Sing State

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everybody! I hope you're all healthy and well wherever you are. 
> 
> A few notes before we begin: I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO PLAY FOOTBALL. I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW HOW TO PLAY FOOTBALL. I AM SORRY THAT I REFUSE TO DO RESEARCH. I THINK IT IS INCREDIBLY SEXY OF ME THAT I WILL NOT. 
> 
> Anyways. 
> 
> Please, please enjoy this Sukka slow burn! If you want to yell at me to write the next chapter faster, you can drop a comment or reach me on my tumblr: @WillowsandWastelands. 
> 
> Have fun, be safe!

Sokka has never been this fucking _sweaty._

Three miserable hours into the first practice of the year, and he’s going to drown in his own B.O. Which is just fantastic. Way to impress Coach Piandao (otherwise known as the only reason he’s able to afford college at all.) 

Why did he have to be born so athletically gifted? Truly, both a blessing and a curse. 

“C’mon, ladies, let’s pick up the pace!” Coach Piandao-- speak of the devil-- urges, pushing Sokka and the other thirty or so putrid-smelling boys to an impossibly faster sprint across the field. “You’ll thank me come game time.” 

Sokka seriously doubts _that_ but kicks it into fourth gear just to be safe. 

He didn’t get a full-ride scholarship to Ba Sing State by slacking off. Well, not in football anyways. Homework is a little different story. Besides, he has the brawn. This is well-known. It’s only fair he leaves at least some of the brains for his far feebler sister, Katara. 

Lunch comes soon enough. It’s just unseasoned chicken breast and a protein shake served on styrofoam dishware. Still, Sokka is so ravenous that it all goes down half-chewed. Even the bulked out senior players watch his speed with open-mouthed astonishment. Sokka doesn’t even bother to hide his proud smirk. 

Yeah, he’s hot shit. You’re not going to catch him unaware. 

In fact, he’s thinking “ _what the hell was I so worried about? I’m running circles ‘round these douchebags”_ when it happens. 

And, for the record, it is absolutely _not_ his fault. 

They’re practicing spirals, slinging that glorious pigskin in tight, whistling corkscrews across the forty-yard line. Sokka is ten-for-ten, every single throw a masterpiece of skill and timing. He’s bringing his elbow back in preparation for the next perfect toss when it connects with something warm, squishy, and loud. 

“ _Ow!_ ” the warm-squishy shouts from behind him, startling his concentration. “Fucking _shit!”_

Sokka whirls on instinct to find the source, apology already halfway out. (Of course, whoever this poor asshole is should’ve been wearing a helmet, but that’s beside the point right now.) 

“Are you okay? I’m so sorr--” Sokka’s words catch and hang themselves in his throat. 

Because all he sees is a pale hand cradling a gnarled mess of red and pink skin, right over his eye. _Oh, fuck._

Sokka feels the blood race away from his body with a quick chill. “Holy crap, are you alright? That looks _so_ bad! Do you need some ice? Or an ambulance?” Impulsively, he reaches out to touch it. And he really shouldn’t be surprised when that pale hand intercepts him, clutching Sokka’s wrist with bruising strength. 

He is still surprised.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” Pale Guy spits, face twisted in rage and pain, canopied under jet-black, choppy hair. It irritates Sokka a little— obscuring his view. “You’ve done enough, _jackass._ ” 

That stings. Sokka’s brow crumples. “Look, man, I wasn’t gunning for you. Maybe you should just watch where you’re going next time.” 

And if Pale Guy wasn’t angry before, he’s _pissed_ now, nostrils flared as he growls, “Coach called practice five minutes ago. Everyone’s supposed to be off-field.” 

Oh. Sokka hadn’t heard that. Probably a little too in the zone. A cursory glance around informs him Pale Guy’s not kidding. It’s completely empty except for the two of them. 

Wait.

“If everyone’s supposed to be off-field, then what are _you_ doing here?” 

Pale Guy flushes an unexpected pink, looking away quickly; dropping Sokka’s wrist in the process. It tingles with the rush of returning circulation. “That’s none of your business.” 

“Yeah?” Sokka counters, shifting so he’s in Pale Guy’s sightline again but is rendered ineffective when the man just casts his face down to the grass. What, he calls Sokka a _jackass_ and has the audacity to get all shy now? “How’s that?” 

“Whatever.” Pale Guy shakes his head once quickly, further scattering that mop of emo-ass hair. “Just leave me alone. And watch yourself. Before someone gets really hurt.” 

Pale Guy makes a move to leave. Against his better judgment, Sokka moves to stop him— remembering the terrible welt he caught a brief glance at still hidden beneath Pale Guy’s hand. Because yeah, Pale Guy _is_ a dick, but Sokka’s not just gonna leave an injured teammate on the field. It would be bad for his reputation. 

Or so he tells himself. 

“I think _you’re_ really hurt,” Sokka reasons, holding his palms out in a placating gesture to show he means no harm. And he doesn’t. He honestly doesn’t. “Just let me take you to the coach or to get an ice pack, alright?” 

He thought it was an innocuous enough request, but not everyone seems to agree. 

“Don’t flatter yourself. You didn’t do _this_ ,” Pale Guy hisses, gesturing up with his free-hand to the injured eye. When Sokka’s head tilts in warranted confusion, he just huffs and shoulder clips Sokka’s as he brushes past. 

Okay. Rude. 

And Pale Guy makes a speedy exit stage-left, abandoning Sokka in his shock, still holding onto the football that got them in this mess. 

… … … … 

It’s all a mess. 

When Sokka manages to heave his aching, exhausted body up three flights to his shitty little dorm, he finds a mess. 

Orange cloth, dozens of dusty books, and various colored papers scatter the floor. Roughly fourteen half-opened boxes have their feet on Sokka’s half of the room, and he’s abruptly reminded that his roommate was supposed to move in today. 

Great. More new people. Because that went so well last time. 

“Sokka!” a youthful voice exclaims from somewhere beneath the wreckage. “Sokka, is that you?”

“Um, yeah?” he offers, all intelligent-like. “It’s me. And you are…?”

“Come closer!” the voice urges with exuberance. “I’m under my bunk-bed.” 

Sokka is having one of those days where whatever is happening might as well happen. So, resigning himself to destiny with a long-winded sigh, he drops down to his sore knees and climbs to the opening; a warmly-colored beaded curtain in the divide. With a slow push, he pulls it to the side. 

Something big, white, and terrifying jumps out at him. 

“Shit!” he exclaims, pulling back as far as he can with his elbow on the tile. “What the _fuck_ is that?”

“Oh, I’m sorry! Appa just must have gotten too excited to see you.”

Using the few remaining brain cells he has, Sokka quickly puts together that _Appa_ must be this monstrosity; the giant, panting dog currently hovering over his face. Tilting his frankly massive head, Appa leans down to impart a sloppy kiss to Sokka’s chin, making it wet with spit. 

“Ugh, gross,” Sokka groans, pushing Appa (gently, he’s not a complete monster) off. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the pup’s lopsided smile at his obvious distress. “Come get your Yeti, please.” 

“Appa, yip-yip!” the voice calls, and the abominable snow-dog obediently trots back beneath the cover of the curtain once again, making a distinct rattling noise that will inevitably become annoying. 

“Got any other surprises I should know about?” Sokka asks, perhaps a bit more bitter than strictly necessary, still swiping the damp saliva off his shirt. When he looks away from the stain, he finds a short _boy_ , not a man, but a bald _boy_ standing before him sheepishly, small chin-tucked in. 

“Just a cat named Momo. He mostly likes to sit on my shoulder, though.” The kid smiles widely, gesturing to the wide-eyed feline perched there. Then, he gestures to himself, bowing his head slightly as he adds, “And I’m Aang. Your new roommate, and, hopefully, friend.” 

And _friend._ Well, silver linings. At least he’s polite. 

“Well, Aang, it’s nice to meet you,” Sokka says. He gathers himself off the floor; absentmindedly dusting the seat of his shorts as he goes. He extends his hand, noticing how the size of his quickly engulfs Aang’s feeble grasp. Frowning, he adds, “I’m not trying to be rude, but are you old enough to even go here?” 

Rather than take offense, this makes Aang beam proudly. “I’m not. I skipped three grades in elementary, though.” His grin grows impossibly wider, raising his thin eyebrows so high Sokka’s not sure they won’t slip all the way around his hairless head. He adds solemnly, “People say that I’m mature for my age.” 

Sokka takes a look at some of the cartoon posters littering the ground and deadpans, “Yeah. I’m sure.” 

Because Sokka is such a pure and noble soul, he spends the next few hours helping Aang unpack the mountains of shit onto the other side of the room. Even though his joints ache from hours of sweaty drills, he helps. 

He’s not saying he doesn’t complain about it the whole time. He does. 

But he still helps. 

… … … 

Team dinners are the best. 

Some of Sokka’s fondest high school memories include loitering in McDonald’s, chucking greasy french fries at his teammates until they were asked by a vastly underpaid manager to please _for the love of god_ leave. 

Of course, they always insisted on picking up the mess before they went. Or at least Sokka did. He wasn’t captaining a band of total hooligans, after all. 

The food court is, thankfully for his aching legs, a relatively short walk from his room. But still, there’s ample time to kick cement pebbles and think along the way. 

What a dick Pale Guy had been. It was clearly an accident— one that wasn’t really Sokka’s fault if you think about it. Sure, he shouldn’t have been on the field when he was. But it’s not like he has a rearview mirror taped to his helmet. How the hell was he supposed to know someone was behind him? 

And how could Pale Guy not have seen Sokka? Fucking. Ridiculous. He was in plain goddamn sight; not hiding from anyone in his highly visible, neon-blue shirt (that’s the last time Katara orders him clothes.) 

And what the fuck was Pale Guy getting at, grumbly like he had five tons of gravel lodged in his throat, _you didn’t do this._ Listen, Sokka is no genius, but he’s pretty sure his elbow-in-the-face + immediate red bruise = Sokka did it. 

Whatever. He tries to shake the whole thing off, piling as many mashed potatoes and watery steak slices onto his plate as it can hold. The poor thing is practically buckling by the time he gets to the rectangular table, grinning in excitement at the prospect of mingling with his new team. 

He plops himself into what appears to be the only remaining empty seat right at the very end corner, plastic fork already in hand. He’s just carved his first bite, the delectable morsel halfway to his mouth when--

“You couldn’t have sat anywhere else?”

Sokka freezes, slowly sets the utensil down, and ever so carefully cranes his neck left. 

Pale Guy is glaring at him out of the uninjured eye, flashing the strangest liquid gold color beneath the veiling black hood of his oversized sweatshirt. The sight sends a quick chill up Sokka’s spine if he’s being honest. Not that he wants to be. Pale Guy’s thin lips are pressed into a grimace that would be intimidating. That is, if Sokka _could_ be intimidated. 

“Well, your mom’s lap wasn’t available. So.” 

Pale Guy stiffens at Sokka’s jab (not even a good one), and opens his mouth like he’s gonna shoot back, but closes it with a sharp snap, almost as if immediately thinking better of it. 

That pisses Sokka off; holier-than-thou silence. 

“What’s your name anyway?” Sokka prompts, against all logic and good judgment. Sue him, he’s had a long day. Dealing with one dickbag, a two-hundred-pound dog, perching cat, and euphoric fifteen-year-old boy will really take it out of you. “I’m getting real tired of calling you ‘Ba Sing State’s Biggest Dumbass’ in my head.” 

“You think of me often?” Pale Guy counters, ignoring the insult in favor of sending an embarrassed flush through Sokka’s crinkled face. _He hadn’t meant it like that!_ Raking a perversely satisfied amber eye over Sokka’s expression, Pale Guy must decide to take mercy. “Zuko. My name is Zuko.” 

“Zuko,” Sokka repeats, like the intellectual he is. “That’s… dumb.” 

Good one. 

“It’s Sokka, right?” Pale Guy— _Zuko—_ questions, smug mask still unchanged. It makes Sokka feel frantic, uncomfortably warm-- thinking Zuko might believe he has some sort of upper hand when he _doesn’t._

“Yeah,” he responds, then tilts his eyebrow mischievously, embarrassment momentarily forgotten. “How long did you have to stalk me to figure that one out?” 

Checkmate. It’s Zuko’s turn to flush dark red, hand coming up to cup the back of his concealed neck. Speaking of which, why the fuck is this dude wearing a hooded sweatshirt? It’s ninety painstaking degrees, and the shitty air-conditioning isn’t bringing any notable relief. Even Sokka, in his sleeveless shirt and airy basketball shorts, is suffering. 

“I do my research,” Zuko eventually gets out, fixed gaze practically burning a hole through the table. The intensity actually impresses Sokka a little. He half expects it to burst into flames. “I know enough about you to know you’re _decent-_ -” he says the word with a begrudging venom “at what you do.” 

“Decent?” Sokka parrots, bristling. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? “Try the _best_ , buddy. I’m gonna be captain any fucking day now.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Zuko spits, that pale face set aflame with a barely concealed anger. Sokka can see it twitching at his mouth and visible eye like there are spastic puppet strings attached. “You’re not half as good as you think you are.”

“You’re right.” He pretends to mope. “I’m probably twice as good.” 

That must be the last straw, because then Zuko’s stark-white hand is shooting forward to clutch Sokka’s collar, briefly cutting off his air. The hand hauls him in and down, forehead parallel to Zuko’s nose so he has to practically roll his eyes all the way upward to meet Zuko’s sight.

“You’re here on scholarship, right?” Zuko muses, so softly that it’s almost inaudible. The transition from open, loud fury to this quiet rage is a little shocking. When Sokka doesn’t immediately answer, Zuko’s hand twists in irritation, pulling him in even closer. “ _Right?_ ”

“Let go of me!” Sokka nearly shouts, getting his bearings. Not too noticeable amongst the loud commotion of the food court. He shoves away with the roughest hands he can muster, pushing at Zuko’s (unexpectedly) firm chest. Though more underwhelming than hoped, it gets Zuko off him all the same; squeaking his chair quietly. 

The other man doesn’t appear frazzled. In fact, he appears assured, confident, where he was nervous and off-kilter. His lips are even turned up in an off putting almost-smile. 

Sokka gets the weird, sinking, sad feeling that that’s about as close as he’ll ever get to a full one. 

“You should be thanking me,” Zuko says, tilting his head in mock sympathy. The movement pushes the choppy bangs away from his eye. “It’s not every day you meet your hero.” 

Sokka raises his brows as high as he can manage, crossing his arms. “Oh? You’re my _hero_ now? How do you figure?” 

In response, Zuko gathers his full plate and water cup in one surprisingly steady hand, rising from the seat. From this beneath view, Sokka catches a second glance at the injured eye peeking out from under that dark hoodie and impossibly darker hair. 

There’s the expected black-and-blue bruising blooming across his cheek, sure. Definitely from Sokka’s elbow of destiny. But that’s not all. No, there’s an ugly dark crimson and salmon pink, too, like raw cow meat laid bare. In the direct center, an eye so swollen with scar it hardly opens. Distantly, Sokka wonders whether he can see out of it. Immediately, Sokka understands what Zuko meant before. He’s strong, but there’s definitely no way his arm did _that._

He only realizes he’s been staring when Zuko’s good eye widens, then squints, and his freehand abruptly comes up to yank the hood further over the scar; obscuring the view completely. 

“Do your own research,” he practically growls. Again, he makes a speedy exit stage-left, scaring the shit out of a short, blonde girl who practically has to leap out of his way. 

Huh. 

He’s a little embarrassed to admit he forgot himself, but a quick look down the table brings the knowledge that no one else had witnessed their little showdown, too engrossed in one of Jet’s crazy night-out stories on the opposite end. Sokka has met him in passing in the locker room and didn’t think he was that funny at the time.

But he’s grateful for him now. 

… … … 

The first day of classes are tomorrow. Sokka should be sleeping, like Aang and his two little monsters deemed _emotional support animals_ crashing on the opposite bed. They seem to keep the kid comfortable enough though, so they get a pass. (Hey, he’s not completely heartless; contrary to popular belief.)

But Sokka can’t shake Zuko. He stares up at the grey ceiling ‘til it fuzzes into gold before snarling “fuck it” and snatching his cracked phone off the nightstand with a vigor. 

He searches “zuko scholarship ba sing state” into Google, like the computer whizz he is (not), and gnaws impatiently on his fingernails, anxious for the results to come flooding in.

The initial articles are boring and, from what Sokka can tell at a glance, irrelevant. They mention people and things he’s never heard of; Ozai Industries, pictures of a similarly golden-eyed girl, and political advertisements for some sort of local campaign. 

There’s nothing explicitly naming Zuko until the bottom of the page, just above the ever-insulting _are you sure you spelled your search right?_ reminder. Intrigued, Sokka clicks on the headline: “How Local Teenagers Are Making Differences In Our Community.” 

It takes a bit more scrolling past descriptions of soccer teams fundraising for hospitals and a girl named Amelia donating her precious kidney to a complete stranger before he finds what he’s looking for. 

There’s a dim, shaky photo of a player leaping gracefully into the night air, hands extended towards the incoming football. It doesn’t look anything at all like the awkward, lanky boy Sokka’s become far too acquainted with today-- only recognizable by the pasty, white skin of the player’s exposed arms. 

He doesn’t read everything (work smarter, not harder), but what he does read goes something like this: 

_“... high school star player, Zuko West…”_

_“... undefeated season … “_

_“... full athletic and academic scholarship to Ba Sing State…”_

_“... generously refuses… asks the funds be transferred… students in greater financial need…”_

_“... declined request for comment.”_

Oh. 

He knows he should be thinking something important. Something like _I should’ve been nicer_ or _fuck no I should not have been nicer I’m no one’s fucking pity case_ or something like that. Something big. 

But all he’s thinking about is how Katara was wrong. 

You don’t really need to read the whole chapter. Skimming is enough to know he’s made himself an enemy. A rich, angry, physically, and intellectually gifted enemy, now undoubtedly bent on being better than him. Potentially so much _better_ it could cost him, well… 

Everything. 

…. 

If he ever gets to sleep that night, he dreams in gold, red, and the sound of roaring crowds chanting _Zuko’s_ name. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ohhh shittttttt
> 
> If you enjoyed, please leave a comment or kudos if you would be so kind :') 
> 
> come find me on tumblr: @WillowsAndWastelands
> 
> The next chapter is already in the works and should be out shortly! See you soon!


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